


Persistence

by JohnAmendAll



Category: Persuasion - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1671740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnAmendAll/pseuds/JohnAmendAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years since Anne Elliot turned down Frederick Wentworth, he showed up as a passenger on her plane. But compared to what would happen to her in the next few hours, that was the least of her problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Old Acquaintance

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the unconventionalcourtship romance-novel ficathon, based on the summary for prompt 87 ('Secret Agent Sam' by Kathleen Creighton). The summary is pretty much Persuasion in a modern setting, so I just dropped Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth into it, and let matters develop from there.
>
>> Trouble becomes him.
>> 
>> Reporter [Frederick Wentworth]’s penchant for working in war zones had gotten him into hot water before, but this was uncharted territory, even for him. Because the pilot assigned to fly him into danger was none other than [Anne Elliot].
>> 
>> Once she’d been [Annabelle May], an eighteen-year-old girl who’d looked at him starry eyed. Now she was [Anne], a very competent professional, whose eyes seemed to hold all manners of secrets. If [Anne] was thrown by learning who her new client was, she couldn’t afford to show it – or the fact that her strong feelings for [Frederick] hadn’t changed.
>> 
>> But if he couldn’t accept who she was back them, what would he possibly want with her now – now that life had taken a direction neither of them could have imagined…and left them both clinging to each other for their survival?

High above London, seated at the controls of a Hawker 400 business jet, Anne Elliot double-checked the plane's altitude and heading. Reassured that the autopilot was in full control of the craft, she toggled the intercom switch. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "We have now reached cruising speed. Weather reports are good, and we expect to land at Bucharest in approximately three hours. Thank you." 

She switched the intercom off, and for the first time since boarding the plane, found the leisure to wonder if _he_ had recognised her voice. The jet was carrying six passengers, but as far as she was concerned there might only have been one. From the cockpit, she'd watched him walk up the steps among the others, standing out to her eyes if nobody else's. Ten years had passed, and touched Fred Wentworth only lightly. She'd changed far more than he had. 

Of course, even if he had realised who his pilot was, that didn't mean he'd think of her fondly. Anne knew, all too well, how her family had treated him. He had reasons enough not to want to set eyes on her, ever again. 

⁂

The journey to Bucharest had passed without incident. While the jet was being refuelled for the next leg, its passengers had dispersed to the airport's various facilities, to satisfy similar requirements. 

"I thought it was you." 

Anne jumped, nearly spilling her mineral water. She was familiar with Wentworth's voice — nearly every week he'd be on the radio, carrying reports of disaster from this or that war-torn region — but it was ten years since she'd heard it in person. 

"Restaurant's a bit busy," he added. "Mind if I sit here?" 

"Go on." 

He took his seat opposite her, and gave her a long, appraising look. 

"Of all the flights you could have been assigned to," he said. "I saw your name on the travel documents, of course, but I didn't realise it was you until I heard you." 

"I suppose Elliot's a common enough name," Anne said. _Though my father wouldn't like to hear me say that,_ she mentally added. 

"Particularly when you're just plain 'Anne'. What happened to 'Annabelle May?'" 

_You happened to her. And that was only the beginning._ "It's a bit of a mouthful," she said out loud. 

"I suppose so. Lucky I heard you speak first — I wouldn't have known you, to look at you." 

Anne concentrated on her meal, not meeting his eyes. 

"That was a compliment," he added. "I like what you've done with your hair. It suits you much better." 

"It's less trouble to look after, I'll give you that," Anne said. She'd been tempted to go for a platitude about teenage mistakes, but that was yet another raw nerve not to touch. 

He seemed to be heading in a similar direction, though. "So what's been happening since—" 

At the distant sound of a woman's voice, he broke off and looked round. One of the other passengers from the jet was waving at him. Anne vaguely recognised her as Louisa Musgrove, an up-and-coming reporter for one of the satellite channels. 

"Sorry," Wentworth said. "Got to dash." 

Anne summoned all her courage. "Why don't we meet later for a—" 

He was gone. Anne sat back in her chair, watching him stride across the restaurant to where the photogenic young hotshot was waiting for him. Try as she might, she couldn't help remembering the summer they'd had together, when her life had been turned upside-down and her heart forever broken. 

She'd been happily planning her gap year, seeking advice online about the rival merits of Zambia and Peru. One of her contacts had turned out not to live too far away: Fred Wentworth, formerly of the Royal Marines, now a journalist working for GlobeLink. She'd agreed to meet him to discuss one or two possibilities, and fallen for him, hard. He'd returned her feelings, too, or so she'd thought. As the days stretched out into weeks, she'd spent more and more time with him — walking together, or dining out. He'd never tried to take improper advantage of her, but people had noticed. And talked. 

When her father found out, he'd hit the roof. It hadn't helped that the day before, GlobeLink had published an 'exclusive report,' claiming — as it later turned out, completely accurately — that to describe the financial position of Elliot Enterprises as 'precarious' would have been to pay it a compliment. Anne had been given a choice: Promise never to see 'that muckraker Wentworth' again, or be turned out on the street without a penny. She'd surrendered to her father, and been packed off to Peru convinced that she could never be happy again. 

(Briefly, she was distracted by the thought that she'd recognised another of the diners. But it must surely be a passing resemblance, no more. For her cousin William to be in this airport of all airports would be an unimaginable coincidence.) 

The ten years since her enforced parting from Fred Wentworth had provided Anne with ample opportunities to follow his career; his combination of military experience and straight talking had quickly brought him to the forefront of his profession. As for Anne, she'd drifted through university, and if it hadn't been for her brief, chaotic fling with Gemma Russell, she might still be drifting now. As lovers, they'd been disastrously unsuited, but from the mangled remains of their relationship they'd somehow managed to salvage a friendship that had endured. It was in one of her ardently feminist phases that Gemma had suggested, among other things, that Anne might try her hand as a pilot. And later, she'd steered Anne's career with other, equally astute, suggestions. 

Catching a glimpse of the time, she hastily returned her attention to what remained of her lunch. She couldn't risk getting distracted, particularly not for the afternoon's flight. Her task was to bring her plane, its crew, and its passengers ( _one passenger in particular_ , she couldn't help thinking) to Strelsau, alive and in one piece. And she was going to get them all there, come what may. 

It was a promise she wouldn't be able to keep.


	2. Fellow Travellers

They were about thirty miles inside the Ruritanian border, flying low over rough country, when the jet was rocked as if by the hand of a giant. The steady note of the engines broke off, replaced by a discordant screech, and red lights erupted across the control panel. 

Forcing herself to keep calm, and remembering the times she'd had to handle situations like this on simulators, Anne worked through the warning indications. One engine on fire — cut the fuel supply, engage fire suppression systems. Fuel levels still plummeting — nothing she could do about that. Distantly, she could hear Hayter, her copilot, broadcasting a Mayday signal, but she could tell from a quick estimate of the rate they were losing fuel that there was clearly no way they could either reach Strelsau or return to Bucharest. 

"I have control," she said, taking the joystick. "Find out if there's anywhere we can land in a ten-mile radius." 

The answer they received was not encouraging; there was no runway in the area which could take the Hawker, nor even a reasonably straight stretch of road. Their best chance was most likely the grasslands in the Dolina valley; failing that, their only hope would be to ditch in the Levinti Reservoir. 

Even as Anne turned the jet's nose in the direction indicated, the fuel gauge hit rock bottom. Almost at once, the remaining engine spluttered and died. The jet was now a glider, and not a particularly good one. Without power, most of the cockpit was dead; Anne had only the most basic instruments with which to bring the plane down safely. As she checked their angle of attack, she found herself thinking that if they did crash, she'd at least have the satisfaction of annoying her father. She might not have been allowed to share her life with Fred Wentworth, but sharing her death would be some kind of consolation prize. 

⁂

Considering the desperate situation they'd been in, the outcome was better than Anne had had any right to expect. Their height had been sufficient for the jet to reach a broad area of grassland, and their approach had not been complicated by any inconvenient trees, mountains or power lines. Until the moment the undercarriage had come into contact with the meadow, it had been a deceptively textbook landing. Following the first touchdown, that illusion was swiftly dissipated. The plane's wheels touched the ground, skipped, touched again, and then lurched sideways. With a roar of tortured metal, the jet spun, its undercarriage disintegrating under it, and finally ground to a halt heeled over at about twenty degrees. The cockpit windows shattered, raining fragments of safety glass on pilot and co-pilot alike. 

As soon as the stricken jet had finally shuddered to a halt, Anne and Hayter climbed out of their seats and headed for the passenger cabin. The scene that met their eyes was one of chaos; the windows were empty holes, and the floor was scattered with glass and the panels that had lined the fuselage. Two of the seats had been torn free from their mountings, one with its occupant still helplessly strapped in. Two or three of the other passengers had left their seats, and were attempting to aid the trapped traveller. As Anne stepped closer, she was able to identify the victim: Louisa Musgrove, unconscious, her face and hair scarlet with blood. 

"Hayter, get the doors open," she said. "Immediate evacuation." She turned to the group around Louisa. "Mr Wentworth, there's an emergency release on the side of the seat." 

As the belt holding Louisa came away, she rolled forward onto the cabin floor. Anne hastily ran her hands over the unconscious woman's body. 

"She's alive," she said. "And her left leg's broken, but I think that's all. Nothing that would stop us moving her. I think we should try to get her out of here." 

Hastily, she, Wentworth and another man — Benwick of the Morning Post, as she later learned — splinted the broken leg, and then carried Louisa out of the stricken jet. Seeing it from the outside, lying battered and broken in the churned-up meadow, Anne found herself shivering. 

"All passengers and crew accounted for," Hayter said, coming up to her. He looked and sounded every bit as shaken as she felt. "All we can do now is wait for the locals to show up." 

"You should, definitely," Anne said. Now that everybody was out of the jet and the immediate crisis had passed, she was keenly aware that she still had orders to follow. Orders that had anticipated even this situation, and laid down the necessary course of action. "I'll scout around — see if I can get help." 

"Ms Elliot," Fred Wentworth said, close at her hand. "Can I speak to you for a moment?" 

Anne turned to face him. "Sorry, I was just—" 

"It won't take long. But I think you need to see this." 

He led her round the fuselage of the plane, to the blackened remains of the port engine. 

"This wasn't an accident," he said. "I've seen this sort of thing before." 

"You mean sabotage?" Anne asked. 

"No — surface-to-air missile. Probably ex-Soviet." 

Anne tried to think back to what she knew of Ruritania. The country was definitely edging towards civil war; that was the whole reason Wentworth and Benwick and the rest had wanted to come here in the first place. 

"It wouldn't be the government firing on us," she said. "So it must be one of the separatist groups. I didn't think they had anything like that." 

"No, no-one's heard of them having this level of hardware." He picked up a jagged piece of debris, turned it over in his hand, and tossed it back into the wreckage. "But there's a first time for everything." 

"That'll be a nice exclusive for GlobeLink, then," Anne said. "And now, I've really got to be getting along." 

"Then I'm coming with you." 

"Mr Wentworth, I don't need your company!" 

"Who said anything about company?" For the first time in ten years he flashed his disarming smile at her. "I'm just looking around for a story." 

"And 'Pilot mysteriously deserts crash scene' is a better story than anything else that's happened today?" 

"Good idea. I could make something of that." 

Anne wondered how serious his threat was, or if it was a threat at all. She shrugged. Her orders hadn't covered this situation, but orders could only take you so far. After that, you had to fall back on improvisation. "All right," she said. "Come with me if you want. But if you're carrying any sort of telephone, I'll have to ask you to turn it off." 

"I see: Radio silence." He produced a slim cellphone, and removed the battery. "That should do the trick." 

They set out, heading roughly due west. In her pilot's uniform, Anne was hardly dressed or shod appropriately for walking, but that didn't make the walk any more avoidable. Though she had told the others she was going for help, she took care to give any habitations a wide berth, ducking out of sight behind hedges or outcrops of rock if there was any chance of being seen. 

"So, what's all this about?" Wentworth asked, once they'd walked about a mile. 

"I can't tell you." 

"Now there's a sentence to capture a journalist's attention." 

"Sorry. I wish I could." With every step that took her further from the remains of her plane, Anne was becoming acutely aware how much of her knowledge was theoretical. What had sounded easy in an air-conditioned office in Whitehall, seemed far less so in the wild Ruritanian hill country. 

"Well, then, suppose we talk about something else. A few hours ago I was going to ask you what you've been doing with yourself all these years." 

As they walked, Anne recounted such of her life as she could bring herself to tell, and that she thought he could bear to listen to. Wentworth, in turn, spoke of revolutions and invasions, victory and defeat, of escaping from Tripoli in an unmarked van under the noses of the Khamis Brigade. Nightfall found them, hungry and footsore, huddled in an improvised shelter in broad-leaved woodland. 

"You haven't said where we're going," Wentworth remarked. 

"Where I'm going," Anne corrected him. "Where you go is up to you." 

"I followed you here. Join the dots." He shrugged. "Benwick and the others will have filed their stories by now. Lou Musgrove, too, I expect, even if she has to do it from her hospital bed." 

"Then why haven't you? Won't your bosses be angry that you haven't filed a report?" 

"Oh, furious, I expect. But it's not like they can shoot me — and I've met a lot of people who _can_." 

"You're risking your career just to follow me around?" 

"I'm not risking my career. Even if GlobeLink fire me there's half-a-dozen networks I could go to. But you're right, Anne Elliot. If I _did_ have to choose between risking my career and following you around, I'd follow you." 

There was a lengthy pause. Then Anne said "I'm heading for the border." 

"With Romania?" 

"That's right." 

Wentworth whistled softly. "That's another day's walk, probably more. What's so important you've got to do that for it?" 

"You know I can't tell you." 

"Even off the record?" 

"I thought we _were_ off the record!" 

"Don't worry, we are." He put his arm round her shoulders. "Try and get some sleep. Busy day tomorrow, right?" 

"Right." Anne closed her eyes, and just had time to think _If my father could see us now..._ before sleep overtook her.


	3. War Zone

Anne woke to the dawn light, and the sound of birdsong. There was no sign of Wentworth, and for a moment she felt a nauseous conviction that he'd gone to turn her in to the authorities. Hastily, she scrambled out of the shelter and took up station some distance away, concealing herself as best she could under fallen leaves and branches. 

She'd waited for some time before she saw Wentworth cautiously making his way through the trees, carrying a wrapped bundle. To her relief, he was not accompanied by soldiers, policemen, or anyone for that matter. He peered into the shelter, then looked around and, to her chagrin, spotted her straight away. 

"What's the idea?" he asked, as she shook off the leaves and hurried to join him. 

"I didn't know where you'd gone." 

"Down to that farmhouse we saw last night. Here." He held out his bundle. "Bread, and milk." 

Anne could have kissed him. Instead, she found herself politely thanking him as she took the bundle. Inside, as he'd promised, were a loaf of bread and a can of milk, both still warm. 

"Have you had any?" she asked. 

He shook his head. 

"Here you are, then." She tore two hunks off the loaf, handed one to him, and set to with a ravenous appetite. 

The countryside through which they passed that morning was definitely becoming wilder. There were no villages, or even proper roads; just the occasional farmstead at the end of a dirt track. As before, they kept out of sight as much as they could; most of the people they saw were men, armed with what looked like ancient AK-47s. Maybe they were just for hunting or scaring birds — but maybe not. 

"Cover!" Wentworth suddenly snapped, an instant before Anne heard the distant sound of rotors. They ducked into a patch of gorse, trying to ignore the pricking thorns as best they could. Peering out through a narrow gap in the vegetation, Anne could see the helicopter gunship, flying left to right across the valley they were about to try and cross. If they had an infrared camera the bushes wouldn't be the slightest cover; she might as well stand in the open and wave at them. 

But the helicopter didn't turn in their direction. Instead, it headed for the far side of the valley. As it approached a bank of scrub, yellow sparks flickered in the vegetation; seconds later, the sound of gunshots came to Anne's ears. The helicopter's own guns returned fire, kicking up puffs of dust and causing the trees to shudder. 

"What made you decide to be a pilot?" Wentworth said, casually. 

Anne shook her head. "You chose _now_ to ask that?" 

"Nothing better to do." He nodded at the helicopter. "That's why the separatists wanted anti-aircraft missiles. Without them, they haven't got a hope. They must be kicking themselves for wasting however many shooting us down... or perhaps that isn't the same group. Anyway: You. Pilot. Why?" 

"It was Gemma's idea. Gemma Russell — I think I mentioned her yesterday? She said I needed to make something of my life. Choose a profession and make the most of it. What about flying planes? I didn't care one way or the other, but I signed up — had to find a job to pay for my training, of course — and found I was good at it. And here I am." 

"She must be quite a woman, this Gemma. I'd like to meet her." 

"I don't think she'd like to meet you. She's got no time for men." 

"You mean she's a fish-and-bicycle person." Wentworth sounded a little uneasy, as if he was approaching delicate ground. "Are you and she... an item?" 

Anne tried to laugh, but for some reason it didn't come out right. "No. We tried to make a go of it, and it didn't work out _at all_." 

"Oh. I'm sorry." 

"We all make mistakes, I suppose," Anne said, and cursed herself inwardly for saying it. 

"I suppose we all do." He jumped to his feet. "Come on. That helicopter's gone, and we need to cross the river before it decides to come back." 

⁂

The only bridge over the river had a sentry: one of the locals, with the usual Kalashnikov. In theory it might have been possible to swim the river, or take a lengthy detour. But if they'd tried either, he couldn't have missed seeing them. 

Peering out from behind a boulder, Wentworth and Anne surveyed the bridge, and found the tactical situation unyielding in its simplicity. 

"I suppose we'll have to wait till night," Anne said. "And try and sneak past him somehow." 

Wentworth shook his head. "I've got a better idea." 

"What? There's nothing else we can do. Don't try to give me false hope, Mr Wentworth. I'm not just a— well, anyway, I've had training." 

"I'm sure you have, but I've got experience. I've been doing this since you were riding ponies and swooning over boy bands — hopefully not at the same time. There's a time to hide and a time to be obvious, and this is time to be obvious. I'm going to go down there and talk to him." 

"He'll shoot you the moment he sees you!" 

"Maybe, but I don't think so. Not if he gets an exclusive chance to put his people's case to Fred Wentworth, GlobeLink News." 

Anne slapped her forehead. "I forgot who you are. Sorry, that sounds incredibly stupid. Or as if my mind's going. I _know_ who you are, I just didn't think how people who aren't me would react. But hold on, he might recognise you, but what's he going to do when I show up?" 

"You'll be my technician." He dug in his pocket and produced a black box and a rubber band. He handed the band to Anne. "Here, tie your hair back. That's right. You'll need to lose the jacket." 

"I'll need it tonight, or I'll get hypothermia." 

"Fine, take it off and put it over your arm, then. Just as long as it isn't obviously a uniform. And take this." 

'This' was the box; small, with a rubbery coating, and a few buttons and lights. 

"Nanocom 400," Wentworth explained. "Solid-state recorder — waterproof, blastproof, fireproof." 

"Nothing but the best," Anne said, turning it over in her hands. 

"Doesn't do to skimp on vital equipment. I take it everywhere. That's Record, that's Stop, that's Playback." He dug in his jacket again, pulled out a comb, and reduced his hair to some kind of order. "Do you speak the local language? Languages, I should say." 

"Like a native," Anne said, in her best Ruritanian. "Like the Crown Prince himself," she added, switching to Lovitznian, and using a local idiom. 

"You're good." For a moment, he looked genuinely impressed with her. "Where did you learn that? Not at pilot school, I'd have thought." 

"Evening classes." 

"Evening classes," he repeated. "If you say so. Well, let's go and get the view from the front line." 

He approached the sentinel with his hands raised, gesturing to Anne to do likewise. Once the man was assured of his good faith, he was eager to talk, with Anne (whom Wentworth had introduced as "my assistant, Mary Bennet") operating the recorder. Grievances ancient and new were recited at tedious length and faithfully transcribed, and Wentworth asked only the easiest questions about the glorious future, once this scrap of land had split from Ruritania and become part of the Lovitznian Republic. Once the interview was over, he cheerfully waved them past the improvised checkpoint, into the area that was, at least notionally, under the separatists' control. 

"Mary Bennet?" Anne asked, once they were out of earshot. 

"Short for Mary Bennet-what-on-earth-has-that-woman-done-to-her-hair," Wentworth replied, with a sly grin. 

Anne pulled the elastic band off, and vainly tried to tidy her hair up. "Better?" she asked. 

"Not really. But you've still got some way to go before you're in awful-teenage-perm territory." 

"I thought you _liked_ that hairdo," Anne protested. 

"I _liked_ you," he replied, with studied emphasis. "The perm... I thought there'd be time enough to talk about that later. Turned out there wasn't a 'later.'" 

Anne decided not to press her point. "Lucky you had a comb," she said. 

"That isn't luck. I keep a few essentials with me wherever I go. This isn't the first time I've lost my luggage." 

"Wish I'd thought of that. I must look a wreck." 

"Sometimes it can be dangerous to look too good. I expect you know that. A bit of dirt can help you blend in." 

Anne looked ruefully at her uniform, which by now was travel-stained and torn in several places. "I think I might be overdoing that bit." She fell silent, and it was some minutes before she spoke again. "Did you get anything useful from that man?" 

"Not really. I don't know how up you are on the situation here, but it's obvious the rebels are getting help from someone." 

"From Russia," Anne said. 

"Yes, but not directly. Through intermediaries. There's a woman mixed up in it somehow, but no-one's ever seen her. All anyone's got is a code name: 'Lucrezia.' Anyway, I dropped a few hints, but I didn't get anywhere. There's no reason a frontline soldier would have seen her."


	4. Playing With The Big Boys

Anne caught the silhouette out of the corner of her eye, and threw herself flat, painfully banging her elbow in the process. As Wentworth landed beside her, the crack of a rifle echoed between crags. They lay still, Anne's heart pounding, for several minutes, but the gunshot was not repeated. 

"You spotted him?" Wentworth asked, his voice just above a whisper. 

Anne nodded. "On an outcrop to the right, a bit behind us. Saw him holding the gun." 

"You're pretty sharp." Wentworth peered cautiously round. "Yes, there he is. He's moving away. Maybe just shooting at birds." 

"I suppose you're used to this," Anne said. "Being shot at, I mean." 

"It happens now and again. Usually I'm not the target they want, but a lot of snipers don't bother to check before opening fire." He took another swift glance. "He's over the ridge. We'd better move on before he comes back." 

He helped her up. 

"Hold still," he continued, producing a grubby handkerchief. "You've got mud on your face." 

"That's hardly surprising. I've got mud everywhere." 

"The face is what people notice, though." He scrubbed at her cheek. "You've changed a lot. When I knew you before you'd have been screaming for your makeup set at the first splash." 

"I was eighteen, what do you expect?" Anne took a deep breath. "You know, I've been thinking about... back then. I think my family might have had a point. If I'd gone off with you and anything like this happened, I'd have gone completely to pieces." She looked at his face. "Sorry. You probably didn't want to hear that, but it needed saying." 

_Ask me how I'd feel about the same thing today,_ she silently urged him. But instead, he calmly tucked his handkerchief away. 

"Now where?" he said. 

"You're asking me?" 

"You're the captain." 

"OK." Anne tried to recall the maps she'd studied. "Along the edge of this woodland." 

"Right you are," Wentworth said, as they resumed their weary trek. 

⁂

If Wentworth and Anne had been able to walk as the crow flew, they would probably have been approaching the border by evening. As it was, nightfall saw them a disappointingly long distance from it, crouching in the scanty shelter offered by a deserted byre. A little way upwind was a farmhouse, its windows illuminated, and with delicious scents of cooking drifting from its kitchen. Anne, whose sustenance since breakfast had been limited to berries and raw mushrooms, felt as if the growling of her stomach must be audible for miles around. 

"There's something I'd like to ask you," Wentworth said. 

"What?" 

"You've said you can't tell me why we're— why you're doing all this. Trying to walk all the way to Romania, or England for all I know, instead of asking the local police for help. They're a bit crude, but Ruritania isn't a police state or anything. They wouldn't try to beat a confession out of you or lock you up for years on the charge of disrespecting the Chancellor's moustache." 

"That wasn't a question," Anne said. 

"No, I haven't got to that yet. Suppose someone didn't want the police to take an interest in her (she's a woman, for argument's sake), because she happened to be a courier delivering something? Let's call it 'the McGuffin.'" 

"Let's not." 

"I like 'McGuffin.' I'll stick with that. She can't risk being in police hands, in case they search her and find it. She can't destroy it — why not, by the way?" 

"You tell me." 

"Maybe it's something that doesn't burn easily? Or perhaps it's irreplaceable. Either way, she can't make her drop. So she's got to get it out of the country and back to the sender." 

"That's... plausible, I suppose." 

"Right. Now for my question." 

"I thought we'd had that already." 

"No, this is the important question. You really are playing with the big boys, aren't you, Anne Elliot?" 

Anne couldn't resist. "You might very well think that. I couldn't possibly comment." 

"Never heard that one before," Wentworth said, with a humourless laugh. 

After a while, the family in the farmhouse turned their radio on. One of the members must have been hard of hearing, because the sound was loud enough to carry all the way to the byre. To Anne's indignation and Wentworth's amusement, the lead story was Louisa Musgrove's report from war-torn Ruritania, complete with a description of how Mr Benwick had carried her single-handedly out of the burning wreckage of the jet. Added to the report, almost as a footnote, was the information that two people from the jet were still missing. It was thought that some separatist splinter group might have imprisoned them, but no ransom demand had been received. The missing people's families were being kept up to date with the latest developments. 

_Not that they'll care about me,_ Anne thought, as she drifted off to sleep.


	5. Let's Do The Show Right Here

The morning's journey brought Anne and her indefatigable companion out of the true hill country, though the terrain was still wild enough by English standards. They'd risen early, breakfasted frugally, and by mid-morning had reached what might, by the standards of these parts, be considered a major road. As they approached the road, the chugging of a diesel engine could be heard, and a rugged-looking vehicle could be seen crawling its way up the road from the lowlands. 

After nearly two days in territory that was either hostile or as good as, Anne wasn't taking even the smallest chance. A hedge ran beside the road at this point; she burrowed into it, heedless of the branches and the thorns, until it would have taken a thorough search to find her. 

The jeep, for such it was, passed in front of her, kicking up a choking cloud of dust that made Anne's eyes water. Nevertheless, for one moment she caught sight of the vehicle's occupants, as if a photograph of them had been held before her eyes. Most of them were young men, scruffy, with the usual rifles; but she was prepared to swear there had been a woman in the front passenger seat. Attractive. Bespectacled. Strawberry blonde hair peeking out from under her headscarf. 

She didn't dare move until Wentworth, who had also concealed himself from view, appeared before her and half-lifted, half-dragged her out of the hedge. 

"Did you see her?" Anne asked, her voice unsteady. 

He looked puzzled. "Who?" 

"In that jeep. She was—" 

"Let's get off this road first." 

The ground beyond the road sloped steeply; they descended at something close to a run. But Anne was determined to share her knowledge, even if she could only do it in short gasps. 

"I knew her," she said. "Agatha Clay." 

"Doesn't ring a bell. Is she famous?" 

"No. But I know her." 

"And?" 

"She's your Lucrezia!" 

Wentworth came to an abrupt halt, and caught Anne by the shoulders. 

"What do you mean, she's Lucrezia?" 

Anne was struggling to keep up with the leaps her mind was making. "She was my father's PA, back when... when you knew me before. Ambitious. People said she wanted to get to the top by marrying the boss. Anyway, after the crash, my cousin Will got her a place at his firm. He broke up with his wife not long afterwards, and I think she — Mrs Clay, I mean — was the reason." 

"You're drawing me quite a picture of her already. You call her 'Mrs' Clay. Is there a husband somewhere?" 

"She's divorced. Anyway, I saw someone I thought was Will, back at the stopover in Bucharest. Now I've seen Mrs Clay, I'm sure it was him. They're both out here. And if she's going around with the rebels, doesn't that mean she and Will are the ones helping them?" 

"Ms Elliot, you're going too fast. You need to stop and think. Maybe he's got a legitimate reason to be out here." 

Anne did so. "I can't see it. He's supposed to be a corporate risk assessor. That could be a cover for anything. And Mrs Clay wouldn't be riding around in a war zone unless she had a damn good reason to. Oh, and you can call me 'Anne' if you'd rather." 

"Thanks. For the story, I mean. If I can file this it'll be a world exclusive for GlobeNet." Wentworth looked suddenly crestfallen. "Except it's your cousin. That complicates things." 

Anne felt a vague, oppressive sense of worry gnawing at her. "How so?" 

"It'd be your family in the firing line. You might get hurt. And I still remember what happened the last time your family got into the news." 

_You're not the only one_ , Anne thought. Aloud, she said, "I wouldn't let _that_ happen again." 

"You're sure?" 

"Completely sure. I'm a grown woman now: I can take care of myself." 

He nodded. "You don't have to convince me of that." 

"And as for my family?" Anne went on. "Look, if Will's been selling weapons out here, that means it's his fault we got shot down. So do whatever you like to him, and I'll be cheering you on." 

⁂

By early afternoon, they were passing through reasonably recognisable farmland. The border, Wentworth estimated, must be five miles away at most. Anne was almost able to ignore her hunger, her various bruises and her disintegrating shoes; the finishing line was almost in sight. 

They were working their way round the edge of a field when disaster struck. Wentworth stiffened and gestured; a few hundred metres ahead, Anne saw the silhouettes of heads and shoulders. A lot of heads and shoulders, wearing military-style caps. 

"What do you think?" she asked, trying to keep her voice calm. "Police or soldiers?" 

"Soldiers, I think. Maybe it's just a training exercise, or perhaps they're searching for something." 

"Or someone," Anne said, keeping the thought _or us_ unspoken. But it didn't really matter. Whether the soldiers were looking for them or not, they were heading in their direction, their spacing such that they could not be avoided. At the very least, she'd be in their hands and have to account for her presence. And probably be taken back to Strelsau for further questioning. She might just as well have stayed at the crash site, for all the good her walk had brought her. 

"Any ideas?" she said out loud. "I can't think of anything." 

He looked at her. "I've got one, but it's..." He grimaced. "Not good." 

"Will it help us?" 

"Depends what they want. And if they are after us, how good a description they've got." He started walking again, in the direction of the soldiers. "Anyway, it'll work best if we can get to that barn." 

Anne hurried after him. "We can't hide in there! If they find us hiding they'll know we're up to something. They'll take us in for questioning just to be on the safe side." 

"Unless..." He took a deep breath. "Unless they find us doing what comes naturally." 

Anne stopped dead, trying to convince herself she'd misunderstood him. "You mean, if they find us having sex?" 

"It's a reason for two people to hide. And it's harder to tell natives from foreigners without clothes." He looked at her, shamefacedly. "I didn't say it was a good plan. It's a bloody terrible plan, but it's the only one I've got." 

Anne squared her shoulders. "Then let's go with it." 

They hurried to the barn, and ascended to the hayloft. As Anne hastily stripped, she found herself remembering how often her teenage self had pictured this scenario. In those daydreams, she and Wentworth had been in the honeymoon suite of some colossal hotel, the floor scattered with rose petals, the air filled with soft music. Given what she now knew about the state of the family finances, it was more likely that their hypothetical honeymoon would have taken place in a caravan park on Anglesey in the pouring rain, but her eighteen-year-old self wouldn't have even considered that possibility. 

And here she was, scratched, aching and bruised, streaked with dust and dirt, her hair a greasy tangle, about to make those daydreams come true in a grubby hayloft in the back of beyond. By comparison, even the caravan park seemed positively enticing. 

She bundled her clothes into an untidy heap, lay back in the hay and looked up as Wentworth approached her. The important thing was to live the part. To any soldiers who stumbled across them, she must appear to be a local farm girl, in the process of being swept off her feet by... well, a sexy older man. 

"I'm Anne Elliot," she said, in her best Ruritanian, and smiled nervously up at him. "Fly me." 

In the event, it proved to be a very easy part for her to act.


	6. Debriefing

Dressing seemed to take much longer than undressing. With a grimace at the state of her days-old shirt, Anne found herself painstakingly fastening each button, slowly and carefully. Wentworth — even after what they'd just done, she didn't dare think of him as Fred — was peering cautiously out of the window, while at the same time fastening his trousers. 

"They've crossed the next field," he said. "I think we convinced them." 

_But did I convince you?_ Anne wondered, fumbling another button into place. The last few minutes had left her feeling drained, in a way that two days of walking had failed to do. 

"Nice work with the language, by the way," he added. "Staying in Ruritanian all the way through, I mean. Can't have been easy." 

"It can't have been easy for you," Anne ventured. "Not when those soldiers came in." 

He shrugged. "I'm sure sex in front of an audience is something we'd both rather avoid. I told you it wasn't a good plan." 

Wincing at the pain from her blisters, Anne forced her feet into her cracked, mud-caked shoes. "Better than nothing — and it seems to have worked." 

"That's true." He crossed to where she was sitting, and draped her jacket over her shoulders. "Anne, you're shivering." 

"Nervous exhaustion." With a groan, Anne pulled herself to her feet. "One last push, then." 

He nodded. "One last push." 

⁂

After their adventures to date, crossing the border had been almost an anticlimax, involving nothing worse than crawling through a noisome, filthy culvert. Once sure that they were in Romania, Wentworth had hitched a lift in the back of a farm lorry to the nearest town. They had travelled, for the most part, in uneasy silence. Anne hadn't been able to guess at Wentworth's thoughts, and for her own part, all she could think was _I've been and gone and done it now._ — though she wasn't at all sure what 'it' was. 

On their arrival, Anne had gone to the police station and put a call through to the British embassy. Wentworth had been in earshot, she was sure; the expression on his face when Sir Charles Croft's name had been mentioned had been impossible to misinterpret. 

"They're sending a car for me," she said, after hanging up. "It'll be here in a couple of hours." 

"And our friend the McGuffin will be safe at long last," he replied teasingly. 

Anne gave him a stern look. "I never said there was such a thing." 

"No, you didn't. But maybe it looked something like this?" 

He held out his hand, just out of her reach. At the sight of the gleaming USB thumb drive in it, Anne's heart skipped a beat. She plunged her hand into the secret compartment in the lining of her jacket, and extracted — an acorn. 

"How did you..." she asked weakly. 

"I took a look at that jacket of yours when we were in the barn. I'd been wondering why you kept coming up with excuses not to dump it." He tossed her the thumb drive. "Don't worry, I didn't try to read it. Could have made it self-destruct for all I knew." 

Anne stuck the drive in her trouser pocket and forced herself to smile. "You read too many thrillers." 

"Read them or live them? Anyway, I've got to go—" 

"Already?" 

"I don't mean like that." He held up his mobile telephone. "There's no signal in here, and I really ought to get in touch with GlobeLink. Tell them where I've been the last few days." 

"Oh. And of course you've got to file your report on the mysterious Lucrezia, otherwise known as Agatha Clay." 

"You're really sure you don't mind if I do?" 

"It's your job. You've got to do what you think is right." 

He turned away, then back. "OK. Listen, I'll try and see you again before the car gets here." 

He was as good as his word. Anne had been lightly dozing on a bench in the police station when she woke to find him gently shaking her. 

"Your car's at the door, my lady," he said, helping her to her feet. 

"Thank you," Anne said. "For everything." For a moment, she felt the urge to kiss him, but couldn't bring herself to go through with it. Instead, she shook his hand. "I'm sure you saved my life." 

"You saved mine," he replied soberly. "Friends?" 

Anne nodded, feeling tears pricking at her eyes. "Friends." 

⁂

It was much later that evening — after the staff at the British embassy had given her a hasty meal, thoroughly debriefed her, booked her into a luckily-cancelled room at the Marriott Hotel, and delivered her there in person — that Anne finally had time to take the bath she'd been promising herself for at least thirty-six hours. With a sensation of freeing herself from an intolerable burden, she pulled off the filthy, ragged remains of her pilot's uniform, and let them fall to the floor. 

The jacket landed with a distinct _thump_. 

Puzzled, she dug in the secret pocket and found herself holding Wentworth's Nanocom. She turned it over in her hands, then set it on the side of the bath and shrugged. However it had got there, it could keep. And she needn't worry if it got splashed — after all, it was waterproof and everything else-proof, wasn't it? Already feeling intolerably stiff, she clambered into the bath and sank gratefully into its warm, welcoming depths. 

Nearly half an hour later, and feeling properly clean for the first time in days, Anne pushed her wet hair back and happened to glance at the Nanocom again. For the first time, she noticed that a green light was blinking by the 'Playback' button. Languidly, she reached out an arm and pressed it. 

"If you're not Anne Elliot, stop listening now," Wentworth's voice said. There was a short pause, then he resumed. "Anne. I've been recording these ever since the first night, just in case something happened to me. Well, it hasn't. We made it over the border, and I just hope Charlie Croft appreciates what an operative he's got in you. 

"I wanted to say all this to your face, but I never managed to find the right words. Funny, isn't it? Words are what they pay me for. But not words about the things that really matter. Words like 'love.'" 

Anne had long since stiffened into immobility, leaning out of the bath as the recorder faithfully reproduced its master's voice. 

"Anne, I've never forgotten you. When I saw you were the pilot on my plane, I hoped I might get to talk to you. And maybe I could work out how you felt about me after all this time. I was sure you'd found someone — you're so amazing you must have men queuing up to throw themselves at your feet." 

Anne could just about contrive to shake her head, but the power of speech seemed to have failed her. 

"Or I thought maybe there was still something with that woman Gemma you talked about. I didn't know what to think and I didn't dare ask. But after this morning, in the barn..." 

_In the barn?_

"Maybe it was easier for you in Ruritanian instead of English. Or because you thought you were doing it to convince those soldiers. But it sounded to me like you meant what you said. That's what I hoped... what I still hope. I don't know if I'm right, but whether I am or not, you're the only woman for me, Anne. And you always will be. 

"Anyway, I'll get this message to you somehow. And I'll give fate a chance to decide what happens with it. If you find the Nanocom and listen to it before eight this evening, you can find me in the foyer of the Bucharest Marriott. If you don't find it till later, or I've got it all wrong about how you feel, just delete it. Stick the Nanocom in the post back to GlobeNet, and maybe we can catch up again in another ten years." 

The Nanocom beeped and fell silent, leaving Anne staring at it with swimming eyes. It took her nearly half a minute before she realised that it was displaying a clock in the top right-hand corner of its tiny screen. 

19:57. 

After three days of steadily building tension, something snapped in Anne. With several choice Ruritanian expressions, she erupted from the bath in an explosion of water and foam. Throwing a bathrobe around her shoulders, she dashed into her bedroom, snatched up the key, and made for the main staircase at a run, leaving a trail of suds and wet footprints behind her, and causing astonished staff and guests to jump aside as she hurtled past them. One flight down, one more to go. The robe made a brief bid to fly open; she clutched at it, and redoubled her speed, nearly falling head over heels down the last flight. Somewhere close at hand a clock was striking the hour, but she couldn't tell how many times it had chimed before she came in earshot of it. 

She burst into the foyer, staring wildly around, and saw him. He was already on his feet, nearly at the street door. He'd found time to shave and tidy himself up a bit since they'd parted. 

"Fred!" she shouted, at the top of the voice, and hurled herself towards him. He barely had time to face her before she was in his arms. 

"I got your message," she babbled. "I was in the bath and I heard what you said and I love you too and I ran all the way here to tell you..." 

It was at this point that she realised two things. Firstly, Frederick Wentworth had not been alone. Quite a number of reporters and camera crews were also in the lobby, doubtless intent on finding out where he'd been, trying to extract an account of his last few days, or getting the inside story on his latest revelations. These cameras were currently filming Anne making an utter fool of herself in an extremely public place. 

The second thing was that her bathrobe had fallen open again, and was concealing, in practical terms, nothing. 

Unsure whether to laugh or cry, she compromised with another arcane Ruritanian word. 

"Anne!" Fred said, hastily wrapping his coat around her. "I should make you wash your mouth out." 

Rather than laughing or crying, Anne found herself hiccupping. She used a further expression, directed more at herself. 

She felt his lips against her cheek, curving into a smile. "You'll have to wait until we're married before I do that to you." 

Anne drew back slightly and looked him in the eye. "Do you really mean that?" 

"When did I ever say something I didn't mean?" 

Anne tried to answer, and found that instead she was kissing him. Again, the situation hardly matched the fantasy versions from her teenage years. She was half-naked in a hotel lobby, surrounded by a growing crowd of journalists who seemed to be applauding for some reason. Her picture would probably be all over the front pages tomorrow, not to mention Page Three, and she was locked in an embrace with the man who'd just that day brought shame and scandal crashing down on her family. When her father found out, he'd probably explode on the spot. 

Life, she couldn't help feeling, didn't get much better than this.


End file.
